


Interlude

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Quickies, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the barricades arise, there is one thing Enjolras must do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> this fic literally exists to explain why ramin karimloo's Chest and Neck Business were on such prominent display during the 25th's one day more.
> 
> clearly it is because he had a desperate quickie with hadley fraser's grantaire.

He has one thing left to do, before the revolution may begin in earnest; it is one concession he will make himself, the man, before he must solidify into a symbol of the people.

He finds Grantaire, who moves as though he awaited him — who always seems to know where he intends to be. He could set his watch by the man, keep a datebook in the cradle of his collarbones, find his own plans written in Grantaire’s eyebrows.

It has always been difficult to surprise Grantaire.

But surprise flickers across his face when Enjolras curls a hand around his wrist and pulls him near.

"Enjolras?" he asks, concerned. It is the tone he uses when he fears he has somehow earned disdain. It has been a long time since has had cause to fear so, but Enjolras does not say that.

Instead, he leans closer and kisses him. Once, quick, almost harsh, and clumsy. Enjolras has lips used for rhetoric, not romance, and he is well aware that it must show as he pulls back.

More than that, though, he does not know how to make eloquence from the Gordian Knot of his feelings for Grantaire.

So, like Alexander, he slices through it with that kiss.

Grantaire’s lips — so used to invective and argument and sarcasm — fall open silently, a soft, pink, wordless “oh.”

Enjolras keeps his hand on Grantaire’s wrist until the other man moves to pull it away. For the first time, fear of rejection spikes through him, slits him open — but it is a pointless fear as, carefully, that hand settles in the junction of his jaw and his neck, warm and callused.

And Grantaire leans in this time, slowly, as though he had never thought this could be and intends to savor every moment of it.

The second kiss is longer, sweeter. Where the first had been a declaration of intent, this is a dialogue of hands and mouths and bodies; Enjolras finds himself pinned to the alleyway wall and yet does not feel caged, and Grantaire becomes expansive, becomes more as his hands pull Enjolras’s cravat loose at the knot there.

Enjolras in his turn settles his hands in Grantaire’s hair and continues holding on. He has never experienced something remotely like this in his life, never cared to, but now, now there is but a day before the old regime faces apocalypse and the new Republic will begin its ascent. This is a celebration, a prayer, and more than that it is a _kiss_. This is a kiss, and he will savor it until it is all his world revolves around.

For a short time, he can give and take as he pleases, and it pleases him to give this small infinity to Grantaire.

Grantaire’s hands settle on the fastenings of Enjolras’s elaborate waistcoat and pause there, a question mark of fingertips. Enjolras answers with a nod, a snatched breath, and his tongue in Grantaire’s mouth.

Gold fastenings almost seem to undo themselves as Grantaire opens Enjolras’s vest, his knee insinuating itself between Enjolras’s thighs, again almost gingerly. Enjolras finds no problem with the act, his mind ablaze with the intent of the action, and he presses himself down upon Grantaire’s thigh.

He wants, as he has never before wanted.

His waistcoat open, Grantaire’s fingers pause again on the buttons of his shirt. Enjolras cannot speak, now, his mouth occupied with Grantaire’s — the kiss breaking several times in the past few minutes for breath, but finding itself joined again each time — but he brings one hand to cover Grantaire’s and lead them to the topmost button.

Grantaire moans, quiet, muffled against Enjolras’s mouth. Enjolras responds by rubbing against the leg between his own, reduced to base sensation and desire.

It is heady, more so as the buttons pop open and Grantaire slips a hand against Enjolras’s skin; Enjolras moans himself at that, the rasp of dry skin against his own in places that never before have been touched so. Grantaire presses him harder against the wall.

Enjolras slips his hands down Grantaire’s front, an idea cutting through the fog of his lust, and he waits for some sign of permission as he lingers at the waistline of Grantaire’s trousers.

Grantaire groans when he realizes Enjolras’s intent, and his lips press hard enough almost to bruise now. Enjolras fumbles with buttons and fastenings and emerges triumphant, hand curling around Grantaire with a certainty that surprised even himself.

Grantaire bucks into the touch, his leg almost grinding against Enjolras, and he rocks into it. The kiss turns desperate, Grantaire’s hands still exploratory, and they move together.

For a few minutes, it seems as though this was all they were born to do. Grantaire, fucking into Enjolras’s hand; Enjolras, riding his thigh.

When Grantaire comes, Enjolras only barely has the presence of mind to direct it away from their clothing and swallow Grantaire’s moaning with his mouth. He is barely coherent himself, and he wants, he was so much.

Grantaire pulls away, one hand retreating from Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras makes a noise of loss, but Grantaire merely drops to his knees.

That is nearly enough in itself.

Grantaire is reverent when he undoes the fastenings of Enjolras’s trousers, taking distinct control of the situation as it stands. He takes him into his mouth in teasing increments, and Enjolras fears he will die before Grantaire gets to the point, but he does not truly need to worry.

He buries his hands in Grantaire’s hands as the latter swallows him down, taking him almost to the root. It is clear he has done this before, and a fierce wave of jealousy washes over Enjolras before Grantaire drives it away with his tongue.

Enjolras’s release comes quickly after that, and he lets out a ragged cry.

When Grantaire stands up, Enjolras has just enough left in him to pull him close again and kiss him. It is triumphant, but it is softer than the others, without the sharp edge of need that those had had. Now, now he is sure of Grantaire, now he has nothing left to ask or to prove.

He takes Grantaire’s face between his hands, caresses him. He doesn’t dare say he loves him.

When they finally must part, Enjolras pauses, tips their heads together, and murmurs: “One more day before the storm.”

Grantaire nods, the determination in his eyes proclaiming,  _I will follow you._

Enjolras knew he would, and kisses him just one more time.


End file.
